


so it's gonna be forever (or it's gonna go down in flames)

by hurricaneharmony



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneharmony/pseuds/hurricaneharmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Darling, we have all the time in the world.”</p>
<p>
His hands are warm on her arms but she’s still so cold, and the heat from the taped-on pocket warmers have long since grown cool against her heart, and it’s all she can do to take his hands and whisper,</p><p>
“No, Killian... we <i>don’t.”</i></p><p>
  <i>Set after 4x02. An angsty bit in which I ponder--what if Emma didn't thaw out after the ice cave? What if she wasn't getting better?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	so it's gonna be forever (or it's gonna go down in flames)

**Author's Note:**

> It took me months to finish this-- until today, I had half of it done, but it was just meh. I actually like it now! Just get to the middle, and you'll be set. Fluffy angst. *hint hint FUTURE FAMILY TALK FLUFF*

There have been good moments. Times when she felt warm, alight, _alive_. She sifts through them in her mind, finding that, though few in number, so many are with _him_ —walking through the town at night away from the prying eyes of nosy fairytale characters, lying on his jacket spread flat over the grass in the forest, laughing into a fistful of soft leather as his chest rumbles beneath her cheek. There have been good kisses—each one passionate, pulling the other closer to melt into each other, chasing heated touches with cooling palms, with laboured breaths that make them both breathe easier. 

She shivers, and he tucks her closer into him. The cold isn’t leaving her bones, and his face has been frozen with her in a constant state of worry with a sad little smile and a crease between his eyebrows. She wants to smooth it away with the cool pad of her thumb, assure him that “ _I’ll be fine, Killian. Just warming up.”_

But she can’t. And somehow, it makes things easier. 

Somehow, it makes it easier in this moment to take his hand, to lead him in and press the door shut by leaning against it, basking in this moment, knowing they might not have many more. 

She’ll take what she can get with him. She’ll take all of it. 

So earlier, she’d asked him on a date between chattering teeth and pleading eyes to battle the worrying insists on his tongue. 

_(“We might not get-”_

_“No, Swan. You can’t think like-”_

_A kiss and whisper of his name against his lips was enough to let her win. She knew she wasn’t playing fair, but what if...)_

So he picked her up from her parents’ loft at six, smiling softly and twirling a rose between the fingers of his left(!) hand. 

_(“The better to warm you with, my darling,” he says sweetly, and looks endlessly confused when she can’t stop laughing all the way to the car.)_

She has twelve little heating packs tucked into the bodice of her pink, floaty sleeveless dress. Her mother had helped her out of the blankets and tried to put her in a wintery woolen coat and pants, but she’s obstinate. She won’t let the cold take this night from her, and she will wear what she would have chosen a week later from now when she _would_ have asked him. With a weak smile that Emma is growing all too familiar with, she cut little squares of fabric tape to secure the hand warmers between dress and skin. Emma didn’t need help zipping up her dress. There was never anyone to help her before, and old habits die hard. 

There’s a ring of crinkly packets around her waist and four taped near her heart, where the cold seems to seep from. Still, she wears his coat in the restaurant. 

She let him buy them both some wine. He sips at his carefully, his glass still three-quarters full by the time he pours her a second. He’s so careful tonight, such a _gentleman_ ,and it’s _wonderful_ —but she can’t help but miss her pirate. The man who would slide the wine bottle away with a lilting grin and some lecherous murmur about needing to “ _keep your wits to resist my charm, Swan,”_ instead of “ _careful, love. Not too much.”_ She takes his hands, slips her fingers between his and tries to calm him with her thumb across his knuckles, but this time it’s different—this is more than she can reassure him of. 

She’s afraid, too. They’re running out of time, and this isn’t how she wants him to spend it. 

Her goodnight kiss was meant to be a parting gift, not _this_. Not her hands on his cheek and in his hair, pulled flush against him in his arms, his hands careful and holding her like she she’s so _delicate_ , so _fragile_ , while he kisses her like she’s _invincible_. She didn’t _intend_ to lead him back down the stairs, away from the loft and across town, back to the hallway outside of his room at Granny’s. The night wasn’t supposed to end with him pressed against his door and nudging her away with his nose against her cheek and a quiet groan of “ _Emma, darling, what-”_

But she quiets him with her lips as the doorknob turns in her hand—of _course_ he leaves it unlocked, because he has only ever been an open book, an open door, willing her to come in—and she turns away as she steps in, reaching back to catch his hand and ensure that he will follow. But when she’s back in his arms, when their lips are _this_ close and the backs of her legs hit the bed, he sighs against her mouth, eyes still closed. 

“Not like this, Emma. I can’t do this if it’s just some _impulse_ on your bucket list because you think that you’re-” he pauses, swallows, fixes his gaze on her. “Darling, we have all the time in the world.” 

His hands are warm on her arms but she’s still so cold, and the heat from the taped-on pocket warmers have long since grown cool against her heart, and it’s all she can do to take his hands and whisper, 

“No, Killian... we _don’t.”_

She feels his fingers tense on her arm, sees his throat move with a hard swallow, watches him avert his gaze and _he too_ knows that they are running out of time, out of _moments_. 

“You know,” he mutters, “you’re not the only one who has lost people, darling.” The endearment is tight and bitter on his tongue, but his throat is tense and eyes are hurting, and she can’t find it in herself to do anything but kiss the downturned corner of his mouth. 

“I know,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.” 

“I just...” he says haltingly, “I never thought it would be you. You were... _untouchable._ ” 

She hadn’t seen it coming, either. Being with him felt so wonderful, so _safe,_ that it made her feel invincible. She’s the savior, he’s a survivor, and they take care of each other. _Love_ each other, even, although she’s never told him yet. She thought she had time. She thought he would be _forever._ And she knows that he would have been. 

“I would have chosen you, you know,” she says softly, pulling him down beside her to lay her head on his chest. “It was always going to be you.” 

And now he’s crying, silent tears rolling down his cheeks and into her hair. His chest is convulsing under her cheek, but he’s holding his breath, biting the inside of his lip. She pries his teeth open with the softest of kisses that she knows he can’t refuse, and tastes blood on his tongue. 

“I had hoped for so much more,” he says, swallowing hard. “I thought we had time.” 

“Oh, honey,” she whispers. It’s the first time she’s used an endearment on him—it just slipped out—and it’s enough to make him look down at her with these tender, blue, _I’ll-give-you-the-sun_ eyes. She tries not to melt. “Tell me about it.” 

He thinks about _want_. He wants to teach Henry to sail, with Emma smiling from the helm. He wants to make her coffee in the morning, not just share shots of rum in the solitude of night. He wants her in his bed at night, every night, and in the morning—tousled and sleep-ridden and bleary-eyed. He wants her to choose him, over and over. 

“I wanted our own house,” he says. “Our own bed.” She hums an agreement, smiling gently. “I wanted to teach you to dance.” 

“I thought you said you hate dancing?” 

“I do.” 

She laughs. “Okay.” 

He lets out a long breath, tucking his arm around her shoulders to hold her tighter against his chest. He noses against her temple, reveling in her soft sigh, a warm puff of breath against his neck. 

“I wanted to marry you,” he says finally, quietly. He glances down at her, expecting her furrowed brows and lips in a thin line, but she’s smiling. “I wanted a child of our own.” 

“Boy or girl?” She interjects. 

“Boy. Girl. Both. I don’t know,” He chuckles. “I just wanted us to have a family.” 

She closes her eyes, takes his hand. “I like Ava. For a girl. After her great grandma.” 

“Liam, for a boy. My brother loved children.” 

“Or Ben. He was my favourite foster brother.” 

“Both,” he says immediately. “Liam Benjamin.” 

She chews her lip thoughtfully. “Or should they have had unique names? So they don’t have to live up to their namesakes? To be their own people?” 

He laughs. “I think our children would have had no trouble in cutting their own paths.” 

“God, our kids would have been a handful,” she laughs. 

“They’d be stubborn,” he says, poking her side. 

“And reckless.” She prods his bicep. 

“Beautiful. Smart.” 

“Old souls.” He laughs at that. “And the boy would be a shameless flirt.” 

“Aye, they’d be heartbreakers, wouldn’t they?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Chuckling softly, they settle into a comfortable quiet. He pulls her further to him, and she rests her cool hand on his heart. 

“I wanted forever with you,” he says, still halfway through a laugh. He’s smiling, but his eyes are wistful. 

“Me too,” she sighs. 

He thinks about the way they’re talking in past tense about their future—as if the chance to have it has already passed by, like their future is already over. 

“I would have, you know,” she says suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Hm?” 

“Married you. Had kids. Bought a house by the sea so you could teach them to sail. And I’d teach them to swim.” 

He imagines a light-haired toddler with teary blue eyes clinging to Emma’s shoulder in waist-deep water, and a dark-haired girl already splashing into it, trying to coax him in. Killian ducks under the water and she follows, then comes back up spitting out a mouthful of seawater, her green eyes oozing disgust as she rubs her outstretched tongue clean with the palms of her hands. Emma can’t stop laughing. 

He wonders how he can feel so much loss for a moment, for a family he’s never had. 

“You would have married me?” 

She smiles. “I would have.” 

He beams, thinking of lazy mornings and soap bubbles in the air over a stack of dishes, of falling into _their_ bed without a question of whether she’d be there in the morning. And the grin fades into something more solemn. 

“Emma?” She gives an answering hum. 

“Will you marry me?” 

She looks up at him, puzzled. “You just asked that.” 

“That was _would_ you. This is _will_ you.” 

“Killian,” she hesitates, “I don’t know how much time we have.” 

“I know,” he gulps. “I know.” 

“I don’t want it to hurt you any more,” she sighs, tears finally creeping to her eyes. 

“It will already hurt,” he whispers. “It already does.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

She shifts out from under his arm to lie beside him, turning to face him and grabbing his hand. 

“It’s still yes, you know,” she says, kissing his knuckle. “Of course I’ll marry you.” 

He smiles softly. “Even for only a limited time?” 

She shakes her head, shifting closer. “For forever,” she whispers against his lips. “I’ll give you all the forever I have left.” 

He kisses her then, tucking her cold leg between his, holding her to him with one arm while snaking the other between them to press his hand against her heart. 

And later, when he shuffles down the bed to plant a kiss over her heart, she swears it thaws a little. 


End file.
